


Crossroads

by Kiyomisa



Series: Marvel Sentinels and Guides [1]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Alternate Universe - Sentinels and Guides Are Known, Gen, Guide!Coulson, Sentinel Senses, Sentinel!Clint, Sentinel!Natasha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:52:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyomisa/pseuds/Kiyomisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint brings the Black Widow into SHIELD's fold, Natasha must relearn how to be a "normal" Sentinel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossroads

           “This is your next target: Natalia Romanova, a.k.a Black Widow. She’s an assassin trained by Red Room, and she's not picky about who her targets are,” Fury took a breath, then looked Clint square in the eye. “She’s also an unbound Sentinel.”

            Clint straightened from his relaxed slouch. “That’ll make it difficult, sir.”

            “Which is why we’re sending you.”

            Clint shook his head. “If she’s a Sentinel, she’ll sense me coming into her territory.”

            “As a Sentinel yourself, you’re the only one who stands a chance against her. She’s already dispatched five high-level agents.”

            Clint took a deep breath. Shit. He really was the only one who could take her out. “And who’ll be my handler for this one?”

            “I will, like usual,” Phil said from across the table.

            Clint frowned. “You sure that’s a good idea, sir?”

            Fury raised an eyebrow. “The thing that makes you and Agent Coulson S.H.I.E.L.D.’s  most valuable Sentinel-Guide pair is your ability to maintain your professionalism when others couldn’t. Are you saying that this mission will somehow compromise that?”

            Clint glanced at Phil who narrowed his eyes warningly. It was true that where other Guides and Sentinels lost their objectivity when the other was in danger, he and Phil coped just fine. But that was probably due to the fact that Clint was the world’s best marksman, and Phil could take down two enemies with nothing but a bag of flour in five seconds flat.

            “Sending a Sentinel into the Black Widow’s territory is gonna make her twitchy enough. Sending a Guide near her when she’s unbonded’s only gonna make it worse,” Clint pointed out.

            “Anything we can do to throw her off will only give us an advantage,” Phil countered. “Besides, this mission will require intense focus; we can’t risk you zoning.”

            Clint still didn’t like it, but he couldn’t find any argument. “When do we leave?”

* * *

            Clint spent the flight studying the target while curled up against Phil, soothing himself with his Guide’s familiar scent and steady heartbeat. Phil took the opportunity to rest, dozing as best he could while Agent Hill flew them out. She was one of the few with the clearance to know that they were a Guide and Sentinel.

            When Clint had gone over everything, he curled closer to Phil, nosing at the juncture between his shoulder and his neck. Phil’s understated musk and light aftershave filled his lungs, familiar and calming. Phil stirred and woke, taking a moment to run his fingers through Clint’s hair.

            “You okay?” Phil murmured.

            “I don’t want you anywhere near her,” Clint muttered, aware that he sounded more like a petulant kid than a grown sniper.

            Phil paused, then resumed combing. “I’ll be a mile away, video and audio surveillance,” he promised, a hint of amusement laced through his voice.

            Clint very rarely went into Sentinel-Protector mode, so when he did Phil did his best to humor him.

            “Have I told you you’re the best Guide ever?” he mumbled into Phil’s neck.

            Phil chuckled and Clint reveled in the minute vibrations resulting in his Guide’s chest. It was like a purr underneath his fingers.

            “You may have—it’s been a while,” Phil teased.

            “Remind me to tell you more often.”

* * *

            A few hours later had Clint settled onto the roof of an apartment building, distance rifle at the ready. While he would’ve preferred his bow, he couldn’t chance getting too close and tipping the Widow off.  Phil’s voice was a steady, low-key murmur in his comm, keeping Clint from getting lost in his sniper's zone.

            Clint held his breath as her arm came into sight in front of the window, waiting for the rest of her to follow. The arm suddenly jerked back and the blinds dropped down.

            “Shit.” He jumped up, abandoned his rifle and picked up his bow. “I’ve lost visual. She knows I’m here.”

            Phil breathed in sharply. “All units keep a sharp eye out, if she leaves the building, I want to know about it. Hawkeye, get ready to pursue.”

            Clint scanned the immediate area for his quarry, ratcheting up his hearing to match his sight. Even with his heightened senses he almost missed her when she did appear; her disguise was quick, but her body language had changed completely from deadly grace to relaxed tourist.

            “Got a visual—target’s in the open—pursuing now.” He kept pace along the rooftops for the longest game of cat and mouse he’d ever played. She led him around for three hours and changed disguises seven times, always staying around plenty of people. Clint listened as Phil coordinated the rest of the team and the local police to start making a net of checkpoints so they could drive her into a secluded area.

            Clint was torn between frustration and admiration—he'd never had this much trouble from a target before--and then the net closed in, making her to join him on the rooftops. She fired her silenced pistol, forcing him to take cover. But she was down wind and he could smell her now, a subdued white musk perfume overlaying the familiar scent of a Sentinel. Clint quickly calculated the wind speed and direction, and reached around his cover to shoot without looking. He was rewarded with a low grunt and Russian cursing.

            He rolled out from behind his cover and shot the gun from her hand before she could react. His blind shot had gotten her in her calf—she wouldn’t be going anywhere.

            “Target in sights,” Clint breathed, drawing back his bow, even as she rolled over to meet her death head-on.

            “Take the shot,” Phil ordered calmly.

            Before he could, she smiled and closed her eyes, making him pause. Did she have some last-minute plan? No—that expression—Clint had seen it before. That was the expression of someone welcoming death. He breathed in sharply. _Focus Barton. No sentimentality on the job_.

            But again he paused, this time when a squirrel came out of nowhere and perched on the Widow’s chest, eyeing him reproachfully. She didn’t seem to be aware that it was there, and she wouldn’t because Clint would recognize those huge ear-tufts and unique strawberry-blonde fur anywhere. That was his spirit-animal, his spirit-animal that was currently protecting the target.

            “Hawkeye is the target down?”

            “Change of plans, Boss. I’m bringing her in,” Clint said tersely, relaxing his bow and cautiously approaching.

            “That is not the mission—“

            “Higher orders, Boss.”

            Phil paused. “Amber?”

            “Yep.”

            Phil let out a large sigh, and Clint could just picture him pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get preparations underway. Use caution.”

            “Roger that. Oh, I did get her in the leg, she’ll need medical treatment.”

            “Understood.”

Clint edged towards her and she opened her eyes, her smile dropping away. “You were sent to kill me,” she said, in perfect, mid-west English.

            “Yep.”

            “But you’re not going to.”

            “Nope.”

            “Why?”

            Clint thought for a moment. “Someone gave me a second chance once. Looks like you could use one too.”

            It was odd, normally being around other Sentinels made him want to punch them in the face, thanks to those territorial instincts. Even female Sentinels usually had him torn between wanting to fight and procreate. But while he could feel the usual attraction, he felt more like helping her than warning her off.

            “My handler’s arranging to bring you in,” he tells her. “Want me to do something about that?” He nodded at the arrow in her calf. She eyed him warily.

            “I could kill you right now,” she said matter-of-factly.

            “I’m sure you could,” he agreed. From the reports he guessed that she had at least half a dozen knives hidden on her right then. He could even see the suggestions of two  of them under her clothes, and he was close enough she could take him down easily. “But you haven’t.”

            Her lips quirked to the side. “Nope.”

            Clint grinned and played along. “Why?”

            “Because. You’re the one that can kill me.” She sounds satisfied, the way Phil does when he slips the last trading card of a set into its sleeve next to the others. Clint doesn’t know what to say to that. One the one hand; it’s incredibly fucked up—on the other; he kind of understood. So he just hunkered down and worked on field-dressing her wound.

            A few minutes later Phil climbed up onto the roof, followed by two other agents. The agents hung back, securing the area, but Phil headed towards them. “We’ve got a helicopter on the way to take you to a safe-house where a doctor is on standby, Miss Romanova.”

            Romanova raised an eyebrow. “And whose hospitality can I thank for that?” she asked dryly.

            “You already know the answer to that,” Phil pointed out, and Clint could hear the helicopter approaching.

            “I just wanted you to say it—it’s such a mouthful.” She flashed Phil a predator’s smile and Clint shifted so he stood more between them, ready to defend his Guide.

            Phil ignored him and smiled back. “We’re working on it,” he said, right before the sound of the chopper drowned out any further speech. Romanova let the rescue agents load her onto the stretcher and into the chopper. Phil motioned for Clint to join them, and Clint hesitated. He was struck by the rare urge to make sure the world knew that Phil was _his_ guide—but he wasn't about to do that in front of non-cleared personnel and a target-turned-possible-asset. Phil readjusted his tie, the code for asking if Clint needed help with his senses. Clint rolled his shoulder—no—and got into the chopper.      

* * *

           Natalia stayed complacent until they reached the safe-house—a small two-bedroom apartment in the middle of a good, family neighborhood. But when the doctor approached with a syringe, she stopped him with a firm grip on his wrist. “No drugs,” she said. The doctor's heart sped up, she could hear it—feel it in his pulse. His expression however remained calm and her respect for S.H.I.E.L.D raised a grudging notch.

            “It's designed specifically for Sentinels;  unless you're extremely sensitive, you shouldn't suffer any side-effects,” he explained.

            “I don't like being under,” she clarified, glancing towards the Sentinel and Guide standing in the corner with practiced nonchalance.  Few things unnerved Natalia, but those two did. For one thing, she didn't know why the Sentinel—Barton—had spared her life. Logically she knew she was a potential asset, but he'd had standing orders to eliminate her—she'd heard the voice on the comm. So why hadn't he?

            For another, they didn't act like any other Sentinel or Guide she'd met.  Barton hadn't made a single aggressive move towards her, either for fighting or flirting. Instead he'd been cautiously friendly—if it weren't for his scent, she'd never have guessed he was anything other than a talented agent.

            And the Guide—Coulson—most Guides were naturally non-threatening—warm, people-persons. Coulson had the warm, friendly smile, and he practically projected “harmless pencil-pusher” but something in his eyes said, “I'm only humoring you—don't make me kill you with a paperclip.”

            The final thing that unnerved her was that they hadn't touched each other, even though they smelled so much alike she could've sworn they were bonded. If they were bonded, she should've seen at least some territorial behavior—standing close, a hand on the arm, threatening glares—from either of them. But no, they were simply standing there, four feet apart, studying her.

            The doctor looked to Coulson as well, as if asking permission.

            “Would you agree to a local anesthetic? We'd really prefer that you experience as little pain as possible,” Coulson explains, his voice as warm and dry as Egypt. Natalia couldn't tell if it was Guide empathy showing itself, or simply professional concern for a functioning asset. His heart-rate hadn't changed at all.  Natalia had to swallow back a sharp spike of panic as she realized that she couldn't really read him—not well enough to predict what he would do at any rate.

            All three waited patiently for her answer and finally she nodded stiffly. The doctor proceeded, but she kept her attention on the other two and didn't bother to hide it. She didn't trust them, not by a long-shot, but she had to admit she was curious about them and their organization. Coulson's phone suddenly rang out, and she scrambled to dial down her hearing from survival to normal. A warm hand touched her shoulder and the scent of human sweat and subdued aftershave was intriguing enough to distract her from the noise.

            “—do realize that your mission was to eliminate the Black Widow,” an annoyed voice was saying on the other end of the call.

            “Barton believes she could be more of an asset alive, sir,” Coulson replied, withdrawing his hand and moved back to his spot on the wall. For a moment Natalia regretted the loss of his presence— _so that's what a Guide feels like—_ before she forced the feeling aside. So--Coulson still had the instincts to help a distressed Sentinel—maybe he wasn't so different a Guide after all. As a further relief, Barton shifted so his shoulder brushed against Coulson's. A subtle display of possession, especially by Sentinel standards, but one nonetheless. Natalia now had a better idea of what each would do in a given situation, and as long as she had that, she could survive anything.

* * *

            “I just want to know why the hell you thought this could possibly be a good idea,” Fury demanded from behind his desk.

            Clint kept his eyes forward. “You gave me a second chance, sir. Just thought she deserved the same chance.”

            “ _You_ were suffering from misguided vigilantism and misplaced trust in companions; _she_ is suffering from repeated brainwashing and forced separation from Guides. Do you maybe see the difference there?”

            “She can be helped,” Clint insisted.

            Fury sighed and turned his attention to Phil. “And you, can you explain why my best agent is going along with this insanity?”

            “Romanova's skill-set would be very valuable—we're short on exceptional espionage agents, and we have no Sentinel espionage agents at all. She also has pre-existing connections that would save months of work establishing someone new,” Phil answered.

            “And her state of mind?”

            “She seems remarkably well-balanced for someone of her condition. I believe a rehabilitation with a skilled, temporary Guide is possible.”

            Fury sat, thinking. Clint hoped he wouldn't have to mention his vision of his spirit-animal. While Fury never discounted the mystical, he had to consider S.H.I.E.L.D's best interests, while Clint's spirit-animal only had to consider Clint's.

            Finally Fury nodded. “All right, but we're gonna do this slow and easy. Coulson, you're in charge of her rehabilitation, you know which Guide would work best for that.”

            “Yes, sir,” Phil agreed.

            “Aside from that, you two are on probation until further notice.”

* * *

            Natalia was given her own quarters and an escort when she had to go somewhere else. She didn't mind the guard, it was only sensible, and if she really wanted to she could easily get away. There was one thing however that she did mind.

            “I don't need a Guide,” she told Coulson flatly.

            “You have remarkable control over your senses,” Coulson agreed easily. “But it is S.H.I.E.L.D's policy that every Sentinel agent has a Guide cleared either as a handler or for field-work.”

            Natalia glared at Barton who sat sprawled on the micro-fiber couch in Coulson's office. He smirked back. “Relax, will you? It's not like we're asking you to get bonded or anything. Just a couple sessions a week—give it a chance; being with a Guide is like having your hard-drive defragged—y'know, what the norms get from dreaming.”

            “How reassuring,” she shot back. “Fine. When do I start?”

            “This afternoon, if you're willing.”

            The Guide was a female agent named Jennifer Oroboros who shrugged amiably when Natalia said she didn't need help with her senses.

            “Never hurts to have a contingency. I am going to have to test your baselines though, for our records.”

            Natalia tensed, flashing back momentarily to the Red Room, but the tests were simple sensitivity benchmarks; how quiet a sound before she could no longer hear it, differentiating similar textures and scents while blindfolded, miniscule traces of flavor in water, and a distance eye-exam. Natalia only tested out at 75% of her true abilities, just in case.

            “Now, how often do you see your spirit-animal?”

            Natalia thought about lying on this too, but she no longer had a clear idea what kind of answer would be believable for someone in her situation—she'd never encountered a situation where  it would be pertinent information. “I don't.”

            Jennifer blinked. “Not at all?”

            Natalia shrugged. “Spirit-animals are moral compasses; the Red Room had no need for those.”

            Jennifer pursed her lips. “Do you know what  animal your spirit is?”

            “Yes.” She didn't elaborate and Jennifer didn't ask.

            “I'd like you to get back in touch with your spirit-animal, if you can.  It's important for your emotional and mental health.”

            Natalia allowed Jennifer to lead her through some mediation. She had no intention of reconnecting with her spirit-animal, or to become dependent upon a Guide, but it was easy enough to play along.

* * *

            The next few weeks settled into a kind of routine. She met with Jennifer twice a week and gave progress reports to Coulson. Once her wound had healed, she went through basic training and evaluation. Barton began showing her around and acting as her probationary escort, as well as just hanging out with her to keep them both from being bored. The first time he asked her to choose which movie they should watch, she picked something she thought he would like and he rolled his eyes.

            “C'mon Nat, you really expect me to believe you like _Men in Tights_? Don't pick for me, pick for yourself.”

            The problem was she wasn't sure who that was, what she, Natalia liked. She could easily pick out half a dozen movies based on previous aliases, but no idea about herself. Barton must have smelled her sudden anxiety because he stood up and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Hey, take your time. I'll help you figure it out. This is your chance to figure out who you really are _—_ and I promise you won't lose it again—we're not the Red Room; we might need you to do some undercover work, but we don't want to rewrite you.”

            The words haunted her for the rest of the night,  and when she finally fell asleep, her dreams reflected that.

            _She's a little girl again, slipping through the alleys and streets of some large metropolis. She comes to a T-intersection. To her left stands a wooden mannequin with a blank face and red, yarn hair. To her right is a mirror and a rack of costumes. She looks between the two, unsure which way to go. A large, silent shape swoops overhead and lands on the costume rack. It's a barn-owl, copper-colored rather than white; glossy black eyes stare  at her, cool and impassive. The owl—a she, Natalia knows in the sudden knowing that happens in dreams—doesn't look too healthy. Feathers are ruffled, dirty and missing in places. One of her talons is heavily scarred, as if it had been caught in a trap once._

_Natalia backs away from the owl—it scares her—only to scream as wooden arms grab her from behind. Now fully adult, she struggles, but she can only watch, helpless as the faceless doll splits open and shoves her into its hollow insides. It closes about her like living armor; she screams but no one hears; she tries to move, but her prison walks on its own, ignoring her efforts. She's powerless as the wooden hands reach out to grab at the owl. It's going to make her snap the owl's neck, and she knows if that happens, she'll die too, leaving only the doll in her place._

She woke, her breath caught in her throat, the knife kept under her pillow in her hand. She started some pattern breathing to calm her racing heart.

            That owl—Natalia had dreamt of her before, long ago, before the Red Room had driven the creature from her mind. Her spirit-animal had come back, the worse for wear, and Natalia's stomach twisted in unaccustomed guilt even as her mind cursed this crack in her armor.

            The dream stayed with her throughout the day, leaving her tired and unfocused. When Barton won his third bout against her, he declared it was time for lunch and took her on a food run. They picked up custom subs, with an extra to bring back to Coulson, and swung by a coffeehouse on the way back. Barton ordered her an iced-chai smoothie, heavy on the cream, low on the flavor, which smelled absolutely delicious.

            At the first sip, flavor burst across her tongue: nutmeg, ginger, clove, poppyseed, cream, sugar and at least three spices she doesn't immediately recognize. She drank more, trying to pinpoint the unknown flavors, separate them out from the rest. What _was_ that? It was like cinnamon, but darker, earthier--

            “-at—Nat look at me.” Barton's voice was small and distant. “C'mon, dial it down, come back to the real world.”

            Fingers, calloused but gentle, tugged the cup from her hands though she was only distantly aware of it. The flavors lingered on her tongue, frustratingly elusive.

            “C'mon Nat, don't make me call Phil.” He was almost pleading now. At the mention of the Guide's name, she realized that she could smell Coulson, distracting her from the flavor. She blinked—Barton's grey-green eyes stared worriedly into hers and his bow-calloused thumbs circled restlessly on the insides of her wrists. Coulson's scent was coming from him, specifically from the shirt he was wearing—he must've borrowed it for some reason.

            Natalia stiffened and he let go when she stepped back.

            “Hey, there you are. Man—that's a lot scarier from this side. You okay?”

            Her jaw clenched. “Yes, I'm ready to go back now.” Despite her best efforts, she could feel her cheeks heating from mortification. It had been months since her last zone, and years since she'd done it in public.

            The ride back was tense, and though Barton kept shifting in his seat, he didn't try to talk to her about it, which she took as a small blessing.

            Instead of fleeing to the safety of her quarters like she wanted to, Natalia forced herself to accompany Barton back to Coulson's office.

            Coulson looked up with a small frown when they entered, his eyes flickering over them as if looking for injuries.  “What happened?”

            Barton shrugged and looked to Natalia, leaving it up to her to tell. Coulson's grey gaze shifted to her, patient and concerned.

            “Nothing,” she said, even though part of her wanted to tell him everything—the dream, her spirit-animal, zoning-out, Barton bringing her back. That she even had that urge made her determined to keep it to herself.

            Coulson studied her a beat longer, then nodded. “All right.” He focused his attention on his food, and soon he and Barton were bickering good-naturedly over the trouble Barton was getting into, being on probation.

            Natalia, now confident that they weren't going to force it, tuned them out and mulled over her dream. That she was at a crossroads in her life was clear, and her owl had a definite opinion on which path she should choose. _'This is your chance to figure out who you really are'. Who I really am..._

            “You are so wrong,” Barton protested. “Natalia, tell him he's wrong.”

            “Natasha.”

            They both blinked and focused on her.

            “What?” Barton asked.

            “What you said, about figuring out who I really am—Natalia is a product of the Red Room. Natasha—Natasha's who I want to be.”

            Both of them smiled warmly.

            “Okay, Tasha,” Barton answered, his expression uncomfortably sentimental.

            That night, her owl once again appeared in her dreams. It perched serenely on the antlers of a stag, who stood keeping quiet vigil at the edge of a wood. A red squirrel sat next to the owl, tail wrapped around the other antler affectionately as small paws groomed bent and patchy feathers back into place.

            She would have to be careful, not allow herself to get too attached, but Natasha knew that she had made the correct choice.

* * *

  


**Author's Note:**

> First Sentinel fanfic--this was originally supposed to be an excuse for threesome sexy, soul-bonding times...instead I got a gen character study. *sigh* Oh well, pretty happy with it anyways. I hope to explore this burgeoning universe more.
> 
> An explanation on their spirit animals:
> 
> Clint: The main thing I wanted for Clint was "not a hawk", since everyone chooses hawk for him. I was like "yeah, something like a squirrel." Then I did (quick, google-y) research on squirrels in shamanism and it turns out that squirrels mean knowing when to move, when to stay still, and preparing for the future, which I think fits Clint perfectly. I chose the European red squirrel mostly for the ear tufts (they're cuter!), but also because I'm a Redwall fan, and the squirrels in Redwall are often archers.
> 
> Phil: I wanted regal and calm but dangerous, hence the stag. In shamanism the stag represent patience and sacrifice for the greater good.
> 
> Natasha: I wanted an animal that felt tricksey and mysterious.Unlike Phil and Clint, I didn't have an immediate gut reaction for an animal for her. I was trying to decide between fox, ferret and owl when I discovered the Madagascar red owl. Barn owls have the best faces, frightening but beautiful, and this was a *red* barn owl. In shamanism owls mean seeing through masks, silence and being comfortable with one's dark side.
> 
> [Guide Coulson with Sentinels Clint and Natasha](http://kiyomisa.deviantart.com/art/Guide-Coulson-with-Sentinels-Clint-and-Natasha-328370092) by ~[kiyomisa](http://kiyomisa.deviantart.com/) on [deviantART](http://www.deviantart.com)


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